


Oh Glory

by tryslora



Series: The Gloryverse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Closeted Character, Community: hp_sexstars, Excessive F-bombs, Glory Hole, Gratuitous Use of Many Blow Jobs, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Sexual Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:19:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus Flint discovered the glory hole in the Hog’s Head tavern during his second seventh year at Hogwarts. But he keeps coming back for that glorious mouth, and wanting more, and more. Until he finds out who it is, and that only makes him more determined to get what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh Glory

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for hp_sexstars 2012. Many thanks to the prompter that inspired this story and let me create a whole new pairing for Marcus and helped me develop a new love of Percy. As always, JK Rowling owns the characters and world of Harry Potter; I just like to play here.

Marcus Flint discovered the glory hole of the Hog’s Head in the winter of his second seventh year at Hogwarts.

He’d brought his books with him to the pub and settled into a corner booth, a carefully constructed illusion keeping stray eyes from noticing that he was studying more than he was drinking. His mates had been and gone already, and he did his best to look as if he were completely soused.

And if he were drinking as much as people thought, he’d have to piss. Not that he did, but he had to put on a proper show. So he left a touch-me-not spell over his books and stumbled back to the loo, roughly throwing the lock on the stall behind himself to give himself a little privacy so no one would walk in on him not-pissing.

He didn’t want to go back out there straight away, so he figured a quick wank would do. Shoving his trousers and pants down just enough, he stroked himself roughly to quick hardness, swallowing a groan as he did so.

Fuck. It wasn’t going to take much to get him close. He’d been watching a bloke out there—not anyone he knew, but someone fit enough. Someone Marcus could imagine down on his knees in front of him as Marcus fucked his mouth long and deep…

“Ten galleons, and I’ll take care of that for you.”

Marcus froze at the voice. He didn’t recognize it, but that didn’t mean anything. Hogsmeade was small. There weren’t many who passed through who weren’t known to the community. Hand still on his prick, squeezing at the base, he looked around; seeing the bloke would make it easier to recognize him than hearing him. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Over here.” There was a small shower of sparks, and Marcus saw it, a shadow of darkness on the wall that joined this stall to the next. For a moment, two fingers flickered through the dark, and he realized it was open.

Waiting.

“Who says you’re worth ten galleons?”

“Everyone.” The voice wasn’t bragging, just matter-of-fact. “Do you want to be sucked off, or not?”

There was something in the way the words clipped, as if every single one was measured despite the crudity, that turned Marc on. And it was a bloke. And how fucking often did he get to get sucked? Not nearly enough, not since he was back at Hogwarts, surrounded by people who called him a troll and who he’d rather have their heads on a pike than let them know he was bent.

His hand slid down the wall to find the edge of the darkness and then into it, fingers threading into a handful of hair as he twisted hard. He thrust forward at the same time, filling the willing mouth.

The bloke probably expected him to pay first. Fuck that.

Fingers slid under his prick to cup his balls, squeezing and rolling them as a tongue stroked the underside of his length. Marcus let his grip ease up, let the bloke control it. Might’ve possibly been a bird, he supposed, since he couldn’t see who owned the mouth, but fuck, no, it sounded like a bloke and it sucked like someone who knew cock. Someone who had an intimate knowledge of just what the fuck a bloke liked.

Like the way he tongued the slit, teasing a drop of fluid from him, then slid down with his throat open to let Marcus thrust into that warm, tight channel. The bloke swallowed then, throat contracting around Marcus, and it was almost too much. But he wasn’t going to go off that easily, not for ten galleons. He wanted to see the bloke work for it.

Marcus twisted his fingers in that hair—a little springy, maybe curly—and was rewarded with a low cry and renewed effort. Tongue and lips teased him, stroking from root to tip, hand rolling over the sensitive head. The bloke let Marcus slip out and kissed down to the perineum, then sucked one ball in to roll it around in his mouth.

“Fuck,” Marcus groaned.

“No,” the bloke replied, and Marcus had to laugh at the quick answer, the sound low and harsh in his throat.

“Have you got your own prick out?” Marcus twisted the hair again, trying to get the bloke’s attention. “I want you to get your prick out.”

The reply was indistinct, and Marcus had to pull back to free his mouth. He caught a flash of red hair tangled around his fingers before the darkness of the spell enfolded the stranger again as he said, “This isn’t about me.”

Marcus laughed, low and hoarse. “It is if I say it is. You want your ten galleons, you’re going to bloody well wank. Get your fucking prick out.”

Nothing.

Marcus teased at his lips with the head of his cock. “Ten galleons,” he said, voice low. “And you know you want to suck it. You’re a pansy-arsed cocksucker, and you’re dying to have my prick down your throat again aren’t you.”

He was rewarded by a low whimper that clenched low in Marc’s belly, making everything go tight. He loved that sound, loved the idea that this bloke wanted nothing more than his cock down his throat. This was fucking brilliant. “Take your fucking prick out,” Marc ordered again.

A soft zip this time, and the rustling of pants being shoved aside, followed by the sound of skin on skin and a low moan.

“You’re hard, aren’t you?” Marcus didn’t let him answer, dragging his mouth close again as he pushed between those lips and down his throat. “You’re getting off on this, on the idea that I’m fucking your mouth. You love taking orders.”

Another moan, vibrating around Marc’s cock. He thrust deep, rewarded by a groan; the sound of wanking sped up, hand slapping over flesh, almost frantic.

“That’s it,” Marcus murmured. He leaned his free hand on the wall, head pillowed against it as he fucked that mouth slow and easy. It took everything he had to hold back and not just drive so hard that he came in a moment. “I want to hear you, I want to feel you when you go off. Fuck your hand. That’s it. Oh fuck.” His hips rotated, pressing deeper as the sound of flesh on flesh grew faster and faster.

Moaning vibrated around him, and Marc responded with another thrust, deep down his throat. He wasn’t going to be able to stop, wasn’t going to be able to keep himself from coming any longer.

When the bloke groaned, long and deep, Marcus heard him shuddering, and knew he was done, and that was his signal to let go. Both hands dropped, tangling in hair that momentarily flashed red and Marcus drove deep down his throat as he emptied his load into him.

Breath ragged, he finally withdrew.

A soft zip underlined equally harsh gulps for air from the other side of the stall.

“Ten galleons.” The voice was softer now, fingers visible within the shadow of the hole in the wall, waiting for payment.

Marcus smiled and gave him fifteen.

#

Marcus went back to the Hog’s Head on the next Hogsmeade weekend. He was in a fucking piss poor mood after his father and brother had visited him at Hogwarts and made clear exactly how _disappointed_ they were in his progress, and how he was doing _nothing_ for the Flint name. Marcus had informed them that he’d be flying for the Tornadoes and they could go fuck off for all he cared.

It hadn’t gone over well, and Dumbledore had deducted fifty points from Slytherin for the destruction of the classroom once the fight was over, but fuck, the fight had been worth it. Cassius’ nose was broken, and Marcus hoped it healed like shite and made his pretty boy brother look rough.

Cassius ought to be the pansy in the family, pretty as he was. But no, Cassius liked fanny. Liked it so much he’d fathered one illegitimate child the summer after he finished Hogwarts, then married a pretty French girl and kept her well-fucked and pregnant with his second and now third child, three years after the wedding.

Cassius was the good son. Marcus was the fuckup. 

Now Marcus wanted to take that out on someone else.

“Twenty galleons,” he barked out in a low voice. There was no response at first, then a soft pop of apparition.

“Twenty,” the voice repeated. “You’re still not getting anything more than a blow job.”

“Didn’t say I wanted anything more. Get on your fucking knees.”

Marcus reached into the hole, and finding nothing, he shouted, “Knees! Now!”

A soft thud and Marcus’ questing hand found hair. He yanked the head forward, his prick still halfway soft and waiting. A tongue curled around it, teasing it, and Marcus groaned. “This isn’t a fucking lollipop,” he muttered. “Suck it. You’re a fucking cocksucker. Suck my fucking cock.”

“You want your twenty galleons worth,” the voice said. It was more confident now, as if he believed he had some control. Marcus might have thought it was a different person, but the voice was the same, and the hair that he gripped felt exactly the same. He twisted his hands and thrust into the mouth, not waiting for a response.

“I just want to fuck you,” he growled. “You’re nothing but a fucking mouth, and this is what you want. You were just waiting for me to get here.”

“You aren’t the only one.” The words slipped out between thrusts, and they made Marcus growl.

“Fuck you.”

A rumbling laugh around his prick. “No.”

There were no more words then, nothing save the rough thrusts as Marcus didn’t give him time to breathe. He reveled in the feel of the gag reflex around his prick, loved the cries as Marcus thrust into the back of his throat, forcing him to relax and open wide and give him a place to drive into. There was nothing but animalistic fucking, until Marc’s vision greyed and his orgasm overwhelmed him and he felt the bloke swallow every drop.

Marcus leaned against the wall as he tucked himself back into his pants and dragged his trousers up. “Don’t you dare get off now,” he ordered roughly. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“I don’t get off when I suck clients off.” The voice sounded almost prim.

Marcus growled, his grin feral. “You did the last time I fucked your mouth. And I bet you’re hard now, and you’re thinking about fucking your own fist, just like you did before. Maybe you’re even thinking about what it would feel like to have my cock up your arse, fucking you until you screamed. Because I know you scream. I felt it. You’re a fucking pansy, just waiting—”

“Sod off.” The insult sounded prim as well, the words clipped and tight. Pained. There was a sound of rubbing, and Marcus imagined the bloke pushing the heel of his hand against his trousers, rubbing himself.

“Stop,” he ordered. “You don’t get off with anyone but me, and only when I tell you to.”

“Sod. Off.”

Marcus counted out the coins and dropped the bag through the hole. “Twenty galleons. Twice what you normally get. And I own your orgasms.”

It was a small thing, but Marcus suspected the bloke would go for it. He seemed like the kind of bloke who liked taking orders. And fuck knew, Marc was the sort of bloke who liked giving them.

#

Marcus overheard Oliver Wood talking about the bloke in the glory hole in the locker room after Gryffindor won the fucking match for the Quidditch cup. Marc was already arsed off about the match, and he was arsed off with Wood in general for being such a fucking fit bloke that Marc couldn’t even properly wank over because he was a bloody Gryffindor. And then he had to listen to Wood going on about this sodding mouth, and how fucking brilliant it was for only five galleons.

 _Five galleons_.

The mouth was worth more.

“Didn’t know you were a fucking pansy,” Marcus said slowly, letting every word sink in. “So Wood’s an arse-bandit. Makes so much more sense now.”

“Don’t be a prick,” Wood snapped. “I like birds. But I’m not going to get sucked off by anyone here. Everyone knows that’s what the bloke in the glory hole’s for. Getting what you can’t get at Hogwarts.”

“How long’s he been there?” Marcus was curious despite himself, not liking the image of some seventy year old wizard down on his knees, giving out blow jobs. That couldn’t be _his_ wizard. His bloke was young and fit, with a side of snark and humour and a willingness to do whatever he was told.

Wood shrugged. “There’s always been a bloke in the glory hole. Have to say, this one’s bloody well brilliant though. I never went to try it until I heard just how good he is. Must be earning a good amount that way.”

“Enough to make you try being on that side?” Pucey nudged Warrington, laughing at Wood’s expense. Wood just glared and raised two fingers before walking out.

“You didn’t know about the bloke in the Hog’s Head?” Warrington asked.

Marcus shrugged. These were his team mates. Blokes he’d grown up with, but he wasn’t about to trust them with the truth. “Never went looking,” he lied.

“You ought to. Wood’s right, he’s bloody well brilliant. Better than a hand any day.” Warrington clapped him on the back. “Next time we’re in Hogsmeade, we’ll take you out proper, Cap.”

They left the locker room laughing, Pucey and Warrington planning for the outing. Marcus knew he’d never go. Not with other folks around. Let them go and get off.

If everyone else wanted the bloke in the Hog’s Head, Marcus Flint didn’t want any part of it anymore. He was done.

#

He slipped out to the Hog’s Head the night before his first NEWT. After failing to obtain a passing grade in even one NEWT the year before, Marcus had been studying for the three he planned to take this year: Charms, Transfiguration, and Astronomy. He figured he could manage an A in each, if he could avoid sicking up. But the way his stomach was churning, he wasn’t sure he’d make it through. He needed some relief.

He’d avoided the Hog’s Head since Wood talked up the bloke in the glory hole, making due with his right hand and a wank fantasy or three. But that wasn’t enough now. Marcus needed something more.

The bartender turned a blind eye to him when he walked in, ignoring the fact that no student ought to be in the Hog’s Head that night. Marcus made a show of nursing his pint in a dirty glass before he made his way into the loo.

He offered ten galleons to the air around him.

Twenty.

Thirty.

Nothing. No sound of apparition, no one appearing. When Marc opened the other stall and looked in, it remained empty, and Marc’s prick remained resolutely soft.

He couldn’t even fucking _wank_ for relief tonight.

Marcus turned around and walked out of the loo, and out of the Hog’s Head.

The next day he passed Charms, gaining an A for his NEWT. The following day gained him an A in Transfiguration, and that night he surprised everyone with an O in Astronomy.

Then he left Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, and the Hog’s Head, determined never to look back.

#

The war changed everything for Marcus Flint. He left the Tornadoes to become a Hit Wizard. He knew his brother had taken the Dark Mark, and that his father followed You-Know-Who, but he wasn’t going to do that. Instead he joined the DMLE and remained loyal to his family, doing what he could to keep them, and his younger sister, safe.

But when the war was finally done, he was left with a sister who needed a match with a wizard of good breeding, a manor home with no money thanks to post-war reparations for his father and brother’s crimes, and nothing else. His father and Cassius had been killed in the war, and his mother died a month later of a broken heart. Alia was quiet and shy, scarred by her last year in Hogwarts with the Death Eaters, and Marcus was so busy that he could spare her little time. He couldn’t go back to Quidditch, not after the war, so he worked long hours in the DMLE, trying to keep food on the table with the Flint coffers empty.

It killed him, working this job, day after day.

Oh, he loved that he could let his temper out. That he was the bad Hit Wizard, and someone else maintained an even keel while he beat the shite out of some arsehole perpetrator. But at the end of the day, he couldn’t let it go. And the mountains of paperwork that surrounded every case, requiring him to write up an explanation of the situation in triplicate and submit it to the Minister, along with any potential links to those Death Eaters who had fled, didn’t help.

He went home each night growling and snapping, and Alia hid from him.

Marcus Flint hated his life.

He walked out one night after Alia ran from his growling and got on the Night Bus. He didn’t tell it where to go, but when it stopped in Hogsmeade, he stepped out and into the familiar dark hazy warmth of the Hog’s Head. No words were exchanged as he was given a pint and took it to the booth where he used to drink and study.

Two pints in, he felt somewhat better, but his skin still itched with unresolved tension.

 _There’s always been a bloke in the glory hole_ , Wood had said all those years ago. And it wasn’t always the same bloke. So that meant there might be another one now, even if the one Marcus had vague memories of was gone. It wasn’t a fight and fuck, which always helped, but it’d be something like a fuck at the least. It would help settle him enough to go home and rest.

He tossed back a third pint, letting the alcohol burn into his veins and loosen his limbs. As soon as he let the stall door bang closed behind him, the voice spoke.

“Ten galleons.”

Same voice. 

Marcus felt his prick awaken, blood flowing into it. “You haven’t changed, have you.” It wasn’t a question.

“You’d be surprised.” The tone was dryer. “Do you think I should remember you? Let me see your money and your cock; I’m certain it will come back to me then.”

“Get your prick out,” Marcus ordered. “Have you gotten off with any other blokes here?” He had his own trousers open and pants wrestled down, letting his erection free as he stepped closer to the hole.

A moment’s silence from the other side, then soft snick of a zipper sliding down. “Never.” The one word was clipped and tight, and Marcus heard truth in it.

He smiled sharply. “Good. Your orgasms are mine. Now suck my fucking prick, and you’ll have ten galleons. Fifteen if you’re good. Twenty if you’re sodding brilliant.”

_Fifty if there’s a fuck._

Marcus stopped himself before saying it a loud. A groan slipped free as a hand stroked along the length of his prick, the warmth of a mouth engulfing just the tip. This was what he’d been missing. This mouth, this hand. And oh fuck, but it was brilliant, and better than before. He’d learned in the years since Hogwarts. Marcus didn’t want to think about _how_ the bloke could’ve gotten better, didn’t want to think about all the other dicks that had been shoved into his mouth.

He reached out, gripping the bloke’s hair, catching a flash of red as he did. He held on tightly and started to rock his hips, fucking the mouth earnestly. “Open your throat,” he ordered, feeling the change as the bloke relaxed and took him deep. Marcus couldn’t hold back the groan, not when he heard the slap of a hand over flesh, the bloke working his own cock feverishly. “That’s it, yeah,” Marcus grunted. “I want to hear you get off. I’m going to come down your fucking throat when you do.”

Marcus could see it in his mind’s eye; he imagined a slim prick and a pale hand working it roughly, twisting over the head then stroking down the length. He imagined pale skin, and thought about the bloke being ready to fuck. “Shit,” he groaned, and he lost control at the idea of it, hearing the catch of breath on the other side, feeling the bloke go stiff. Marcus leaned his head against the wall, feeling the cool against his skin. “Fuck. Your mouth is fucking brilliant. Sodding fucking treasure of the Hog’s Head.”

There was a shuffling noise, the sound of something rustling, and Marcus imagined a handkerchief to blot his lips, to match the prim and proper voice. “You owe me twenty galleons then,” the bloke replied crisply. “Since it appears I was _sodding brilliant_.”

Marcus couldn’t argue, and counted the coin and passed it through. “Be here tomorrow, same time,” he ordered.

“Why should I bother?”

Marcus grinned sharply. “Because I’m the best customer you’ve ever had. The other blokes, they just want to fuck a hole. Any hole, as long as it’s wet and willing and not likely to bite their dick off. But I want to fuck your mouth, and I want to get you off at the same time. We’re going to fuck eventually.”

A pause faded into complete silence. Marcus knew he was still there; he hadn’t heard the pop of apparition.

“No. We’re not.” The words were sharp and cold when they finally came. “I am not a whore who will go arse up. Not for any amount of money.”

Marcus’ jaw set tight. “Tomorrow. Twenty galleons. I’m going to fuck your mouth.”

“We shall see.”

This time the pop of apparition heralded the silence, and Marcus slumped against the opposite wall. He needed another drink. And the bloke would be back tomorrow. Marcus was sure of it. Because fuck if he didn’t enjoy it just as much as Marcus did.

#

For the next three nights, Marcus returned to the Hog’s Head each night, and each night the bloke was there. On the fourth night, and for a week thereafter, the glory hole was empty.

Marcus’ temper rose until he was growling at work, acting the role of bad Hit Wizard to his partner’s good with gusto. Three arms were broken, one shoulder dislocated, and a hand burnt by an accidental spell. He wasn’t surprised when he was called into Cap’s office one afternoon. He went in with robes straight and a snarl in his expression, ready to bite someone’s head off for complaining.

“Siddown.” Cap gestured at the empty chair in his office. The other was occupied by someone who was vaguely familiar, if remembered through the haze of memory back to Hogwarts. The skinny Weasley. The one who was always more prat than lion. Percival.

“Weasley,” Marcus growled as he sat, glaring and not sure why the git would be here now.

Percy Weasley looked him up and down, green eyes not quite hidden behind thin wire-rimmed glasses that perched on his nose. He smiled thinly. “Flint.”

And with that one word, that one sharp, tightly bitten name, Marcus _knew_. His body tightened, his nose flared, and he shifted in his seat at the sudden discomfort. A low growl slipped out, irritated by feeling like _this_ in Cap’s office where he had no business thinking any of the thoughts that flooded into his mind. “What the fuck are you here for?” he snarled.

Weasley didn’t recognize him. He couldn’t have, or else he’d have betrayed it in his expression. Wouldn’t he? Instead there was quiet silence as Weasley sat there, perfectly proper as he ever was, waiting until Marcus slumped back into his chair before that thin smile came again. “The Minister has a new task force and Captain Heregard tells me that you have _unique_ talents that might well be brought to bear in this case.”

“You need me to hurt someone.” Marcus crossed his arms, trying not to listen to that voice, trying not to think the thoughts that came with the sharp cadence of Weasley’s speech. “M’not interested in any special task force. I’m good with my partner here.”

“It isn’t an opportunity you can ignore,” Weasley said, tone deceptively mild.

“Nor is it a choice. You’re on the assignment, Flint, until further notice.”

Marcus glared at Cap. “I’m in the middle of a case.”

“Not any more.”

Weasley rose in one fluid motion, robes falling smoothly about his legs as he brushed them down. Expensive robes, not ratty hand-me-down Weasley robes. Just like the glasses, and the shoes Marcus could see peeking out. Everything about Weasley screamed money. Money that Marcus knew _exactly_ how he earned. Just like he knew what that red hair felt like clenched between his fingertips.

“No,” Marcus growled. He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t going to work with Weasley.

“As has already been stated, this is not optional.” Weasley stood over him, looking down, and Marcus felt a flare of heat in his gut at the reversal of their usual positions. Something lit in Weasley’s gaze, and Marcus knew he’d been wrong: Weasley _did_ recognize his voice. He knew exactly who he was dealing with. “I assure you, you were hardly my first choice. We need someone who has control of their temper. From what I understand, you aren’t that person.”

Marcus exploded out of his seat, and Weasley nodded as if to note that he’d proved the point, but Marcus didn’t care. He took a step forward. “Fine,” he growled.

Percy’s head tilted slightly; he wasn’t as short as Marcus remembered, only an inch or so below Marcus’ own 6’3” height. “I shall send you the details for the first meeting of the task force. I expect you to be on time, and to keep your temper reigned in. I will not have you destroying this operation because you are too much of a troll to contain yourself.”

Every word bit into Marcus’ mind and he wanted to grab him, shake him, snog him, shove him down to his knees to do what he was best at… his lip curled and he snarled. “Fine,” he repeated.

Then he turned and stalked out, before he did any of the things that kept running through his mind.

#

The memo, when he received it, told him to go to the Hog’s Head that night at half ten. _You’re joking_ , Marcus wrote back, only to receive a single word— _hardly—_ in response. So at half ten, he walked into the Hog’s Head and looked around until he spotted red hair at a table in the back.

Marcus started to approach, pausing at the tiny shake of Weasley’s head. Fine then. Whatever the fuck game he was playing, Marcus could go along. He sat at the bar instead, waiting for his pint of beer in a barely clean glass. He didn’t plan on drinking it, not this time. He hunched over the bar, letting it look like he was as focused on his drink as ever, while sipping nothing from it and letting his gaze drift around the pub.

They came in not long after Marcus did: two blokes, both shorter than him but broad and fit, their robes thick enough that Marcus knew they were likely hiding weapons underneath. Plenty of thugs did that, carrying clubs instead of wands, because a club couldn’t be traced like a spell could. And of course, the two blokes headed straight to the table where Weasley sat, flanking him as they joined him.

The conversation drifted to Marcus’ hearing, and he had to be somewhat impressed by the spell Weasley had laid down unnoticed. After a moment, Marcus realized he knew the blokes. He’d used them himself, on occasion, when he needed information that wasn’t going to come through normal routes. They weren’t the sort that he’d expect Weasley, or the Minister, to be using.

Nor was he expecting the conversational snippets that came to him, with offers of trade and wares and highly illegal potions mentioned alongside political favors and the name of a master criminal Marcus thought was legendary rather than fact. When Weasley stood, Marcus pushed the barely touched pint away from himself. Fuck. He had no idea if this was a part of the plan and he should let it go, or if Weasley was in trouble. Sodding idiot should’ve met with him _before_ the meet, let him know a code word. Given him a fucking signal to let him know what he was doing.

It was obvious that Marcus had been brought in to be the muscle, but what the fuck was he supposed to do with it?

 _Control_.

The softly murmured word reached his ears, and he growled, low in his throat. He wasn’t some fucking _dog_ to be ordered around. Sit. Stay. Control. _Fuck Weasley._

A rumble of conversation that he missed, and the two blokes were leaving. Weasley turned and walked to the loo, and after a moment, Marcus rose and stalked off in the same direction.

Weasley stood at the sink washing his hands. “Don’t let me bother you.”

“Seems odd to see you out of the stall,” Marcus said bluntly, making sure the door was shut and for once, fucking well _locked_.

One eyebrow rose. “This isn’t a conversation you want to be having with me right now, Flint. We’re working, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“How could I remember? You didn’t tell me a fucking detail about the case, just told me to be here then told me to sit down and shut up. What the fuck do you want out of me, Weasley?”

“Try being polite.” The words were the same clipped, sharp tones that Marcus knew well. “This _is_ work, after all, Flint. A job.”

“Money’s exchanged for work, so I’d say you on your knees is a job as well,” Marcus snapped. “Feel like making an extra twenty galleons tonight?”

“No.” Weasley dried his hands with a spell. “We’re done here. You’ll be in my office in the morning for a debriefing. In the meantime, take this before you sleep.” He held out a vial, and Marcus took it without thinking.

“What is it?”

“A potion of Dedicated Recall.” That thin, bland smile returned to grace Weasley’s lips. “We shall discuss the results in the morning. In the meantime, sleep well, Flint.” With a twist and a pop of apparition, he was gone.

Flint gave the potion a dubious look and tucked it into his pocket. He didn’t have any reason to trust Weasley, work assignment aside, but he knew his job was on the line here. He’d take it when he got home, and meet with Weasley in the morning.

And they were bloody well going to talk about this shite in the glory hole. He wanted Weasley on his knees where he could see him this time. And he was going to have it.

#

Marcus started talking the moment he walked into Weasley’s office. He had knocked on the door and as soon as it opened, Weasley said _Recall!_ and Marcus started spilling everything he remembered from the night before.

He began with detailed descriptions of each bloke, both information he knew before and new things he had noted the night before, like the dark lines along Stilton’s fingernails, and the dark cast to Figero’s teeth. He picked apart their behaviour: Stilton had been nervous despite his tough posturing, hiding something every time he tapped his fingertips twice on the table. Figero, on the other hand, had been high as a fucking kite on some potion or other, his toe constantly tapping, his motions erratic. He had been the dangerous one, muscles twitching at everything, and Marcus was positive that at the very end, it was only Stilton that had kept Figero from strangling Weasley on the spot.

He recounted every word of the conversation, even things he didn’t remember consciously hearing, and all the while Weasley took meticulous notes in a tiny cramped handwriting, easily keeping up despite the lack of a Quick Quotes Quill. When he ran out of things to tell about the two blokes, he moved on to Weasley himself.

He was several paragraphs into a description of the way Weasley’s hand had twisted in his robes when he was uncertain, or the way he held his chin just a shade too high during their encounter in the loo, when he realized that Weasley had stopped writing. But he couldn’t stop talking, despite the glare that came before Weasley finally snapped, “ _Finite Incantatum!_ ” 

Marcus mercifully fell silent, and drank the water from the glass Weasley set before him.

“If all you needed was someone to memorize every fucking detail, why drag me along? You could’ve picked anyone.”

“One, you have an eye for detail that is highly evident despite the fact that you despise writing reports for your cases,” Weasley said dryly. “You recall more about a crime scene naturally than most do under the effects of the potion. And two, in case something went awry, I was well aware that you could break either of those men, and quite probably both if necessary.”

“You were willing to offer them _favors_ ,” Marcus growled. “In what idiotic world did you think that could end well?”

“It obviously did.” Weasley stared at him. “Neither accepted, nor would they. A straight man will never accept favors from a bloke he can see. Without the safety of the wall between us, I assure you, my mouth is quite safe and my favors are under my complete control.”

“Does your boss know you suck off strangers in the loo?” It was a change of topic, but Marcus wanted to get Weasley off-topic. And into a discussion of sex, because fuck, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Every fucking word brought it to mind.

“Of course not. And he won’t. Because if you tell him, you will never put your cock anywhere near my mouth again.” Each word was tight, clipped, and somewhat uncomfortable. A flush rose to Weasley’s cheeks, not quite as red as his hair but fucking close.

And fuck, but Marcus liked the look of it. He smiled in return, baring teeth. “I doubt that. I’m still your best customer. Only one who gives a shite about your prick. Bet you’d love doing it without a wall between us so I could touch you. Get you off.”

“We aren’t going to fuck, Flint,” Weasley said sharply. “Nor am I going to suck you off in my office.”

Marcus stepped in close and tight, twisting his fingers through Weasley’s hair. “Yes you are,” he murmured. Because now that he knew who belonged to that mouth, he wasn’t walking away until he got what he wanted. “Right here, right now. Because you’re thinking about it just as much as I am.” His other hand dropped and he reached between Weasley’s legs, stroking against the thick length he could feel already rigid there. “On your fucking knees, and get your prick out. I want to see it.”

Their breath was loud and harsh in the silence, until Weasley ground out the words, “One hundred galleons.”

Marcus laughed and yanked him closer, pushing him back until the desk was behind him, letting him press prick to prick, despite the robes between them. He claimed his mouth, snogging him thoroughly. “Fifty,” he said, “and only if you’re sodding brilliant.”

Not a word while Marcus undid Weasley’s robes, pushing them wide and waiting until Weasley pushed his own pants down to release a thick cock, the head a solid handful as Weasley wrapped his own fingers around it with a low groan.

“That’s it,” Marcus murmured, and as he nudged, Weasley sank to his feet, tugging Marcus’ robes open along the way.

He watched as his prick pushed into Weasley’s mouth, as it was taken deep, and those green eyes stared up at him, wide and daring Marcus to fuck him. So he did, setting a slow easy cadence that took advantage of just how _good_ Weasley was with his throat open wide to take him.

It wasn’t going to take long, one hand on his balls, rolling them roughly as Marcus’ hips twitched and he groaned, thrusting harder. “Don’t get off,” he ordered, voice hoarse. “Don’t you dare fucking get off.”

Weasley brought both hands up to grip Marcus’ arse, pulling the cheeks wide, one finger sliding between them to find the tight, puckered hole. Marcus growled, the world going grey as he felt himself breached, one finger edged past the rim to slide into him, discovering just how well-used that entrance was as it accepted the invasion.

“Fuck.” It was too much, and it sent him over the edge, spilling into Weasley’s throat as his arse clenched around his finger. He held on, hips rocking until the spasms subsided, then he pulled out, sinking to his own knees.

Not a word as he spit on his palm, then wrapped his hand around Weasley’s prick. So fucking thick and long, it was sodding brilliant on its own. Marcus wanked him with a rough touch, from root to head, rolling over it as he pulled him off. It was over in only a few strokes; Weasley’s eyes scrunched shut and he spilled all over Marcus’ hand.

Marcus reached out with his clean hand and palmed the nape of Weasley’s neck, pulling him forward to claim a deep kiss. He didn’t kiss, not normally. It wasn’t a part of fucking. But he wanted to _claim_ Weasley. “You don’t give that to anyone but me,” Marcus growled. “No one else, you understand?”

A shallow nod, then another kiss as Weasley pushed forward into him before he yanked himself back and stood in one fluid motion. “I think it’s time for you to go,” he said quietly.

Marcus vanished the mess with a quick flick of his wand, then dug out his money. “Fifty galleons. As agreed.” He gave Weasley a look, setting the coins on the desk. “We’re not done here.”

“Yes. We. Are.” That thin smile returned once more, removing every trace of honest expression from Weasley’s face. “Aside from this assignment, we are through.”

Marcus didn’t agree. Now that he knew who the mouth was behind the glory hole—and now that Weasley knew his fucking secret—this was far from over. As far as he was concerned, it had only just begun.

#

Weasley summoned Marcus to his office three days later. The door had barely closed before Weasley pushed Marcus back against the door, tongue in his throat, hands working the fastenings of his robes.

“…The fuck?” Marcus shoved him back, keeping those thin wrists gripped tightly in his fingers. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Weasley laughed, the sound as sharp and bitter as his words. Reluctant, as if he didn’t want to show something. He yanked back, pulling away with a surprising strength. “You,” he said, the word flat and without humour. “I’m going to do _you_ , Flint. Bent over my desk, with my cock up your arse, and you’re going to fucking well scream for it, because it’s what you’ve wanted all along. Ever since you first stuck your cock in my mouth years ago on Hogsmeade weekend.”

Blood rushed to his groin as Marcus’ prick rose at the thought. That image was _exactly_ what he wanted, but not like this. Not out of his fucking control. “Since when? You’ve always said no fucking.” His gaze narrowed. “How much, exactly, is this going to cost me? Is this how it works then, Weasley? Now that you know I like to take it up the arse, I’ll be paying you for the privilege so you’ll keep quiet about it?”

“What?” Weasley’s brow furrowed, confused. “No. You want to be fucked, I’m going to fuck you because I _want_ to fuck you. I don’t care about the money.” He paused, then shook his head. “Strike that. I care about the money.”

His tone had changed. Shifted. The cadence was more natural, emotion shining through that wasn’t bitter or angry or repressed. This was honesty and Marcus had no fucking idea what to do with it.

“Fine. One hundred galleons.” Money Marcus could deal with. He didn’t have as much to throw away as he used to, but there would be more. “One hundred galleons, one fuck.”

Weasley waved a hand. “No.” The word came more easily, not bitten off as if he had tasted something sour. “You’re not going to pay me, that’s not how it works.” His gaze met Marcus’, clear and even. “I’m going to pay you.”

“What?” Marcus took a step back, hands up and fisted. “I’m not your fucking whore, Weasley.”

“Under the circumstances, we might undertake the attempt to call each other by our given names, at least when behind closed doors and privacy spells, as we are now,” Weasley pointed out. “It’s Percy. And frankly, if you’ll be screaming it in pleasure, I’d far rather hear that than Weasley, which could imply that you’re fantasizing I’m one of several other than myself.”

“Fine. Percy.” Marcus frowned. “What the fuck is going on here?”

Percy swallowed as his lips pursed. It sounded as if each word cost him to speak. “I’ve never fucked a bloke. Nor have I ever _been_ fucked, but I’ve no desire for it.”

Marcus’ eyes widened. “You’re a fucking virgin.” It wasn’t a question. Percy had just fucking well _said_ it after all.

“No.” Sharp and short. “I’m married, and I’ll have you know that my wife has few complaints.” As Percy said it that way, it implied to Marcus that she must have _some_ complaints, just not many, but he wouldn’t point that out as Percy continued. “However, I have always preferred the company of men. It simply has never been feasible.”

“Until now,” Marcus said.

“Until now,” Percy agreed. “You are the first to know that I—”

“You’re the best mouth that’s ever been in the glory hole of the Hog’s Head,” Marcus finished the statement. “Oliver Wood went on about fucking your mouth. He was your sodding housemate and he never knew?”

“Housemate and one of my best mates, until the war came between us,” Percy said quietly. “And no, he never knew. Seven inches, and quite thin.” Percy described Oliver’s prick as if it were a wand. “He fantasized about one of the Harpies when he came to me, informing me that I had tits the size of melons, and thick pouting lips, and that my thighs gripped a broomstick tight enough to milk a bloke dry.” He smiled wryly. “He preferred it if I did not speak, so I stayed silent. I recognized his voice, yet he never heard mine. It was a perfect arrangement.”

“And me?” Marcus still stood by the door, hands by his side now in loose fists.

“Six and three quarter inches long, and somewhat average in girth. A curve to the left, and a distinct fondness for having your bollocks sucked,” Percy stated evenly. “And a disturbing habit of thinking about the person who owned the mouth.” He swallowed, lips pressed together as his gaze shifted to look away from Marcus. “I do believe you once told me that you owned my orgasms.”

“I remember that.” Marcus took a slow step forward. “Did anyone else ever get you off?”

“No one even thought of it, save my wife,” Percy said flatly. “Nor did I care.” A short pause, the words quiet as he added, “Until now. Last night I fucked Audrey and I thought of you, and I had the best fucking orgasm of my life aside from those times in the Hog’s Head. So now I’m going to fuck you.”

Marcus undid his robes, letting them fall open before he’d even realized that he’d made his decision. “You’re never going to fuck another bloke,” he growled as he pulled Percy closer, one hand sliding under his robes, the other palming his head to anchor him for a kiss. He attacked him with his mouth, the kiss furious and hungry, and Percy met him, delving deep into his mouth and nipping at his lip.

“My orgasms are yours,” Percy managed to say between kisses, and Marcus growled again, low and feral and hungry.

Robes fell to the wayside, pants following not long after. Percy sank to his knees without Marcus ordering, eyes cast up from beneath long lashes, pupils blown with pleasure as he murmured around Marcus’ length. Marcus was determined not to come yet; he wanted this to fucking well last. But he loved this image of Percy Weasley on his knees, freckles dark against the flush of his skin, one thin hand cupping Marcus’ balls while the other slid between his cheeks, pressing against his hole.

Marcus pressed back, his body resisting, then allowing at least that small entrance. “Fuck,” he groaned, fingers tight as he yanked on Percy’s hair, thrusting deeper into his throat. “Lube,” he managed to groan. “You’re going to need some fucking lube.”

Percy only took him deeper yet, nose pressed against Marcus’ belly, throat vibrating slightly as he swallowed. Oh fuck, Marcus was going to lose it right now, and fuck if he’d let that happen. He gripped that red hair, twisting as he pushed Percy back and let his prick slip out of the warmth of his mouth. “Fuck me,” Marcus growled. “ _Now_.”

Percy’s eyes widened, and Marcus wasn’t going to give him a chance to think about it. He turned, bending over the desk, his legs slightly spread, arse in the air. He knew what he looked like, he knew he looked fucking wanton like this, and he knew Percy wasn’t going to be able to resist. He also knew Percy liked following directions, so he snapped again, “I said _fuck me_.”

A quick rustling, and then something warm and slick pressed into Marcus’ hole along with two fingers, inserted almost too enthusiastically, not giving him time to adjust. But fuck, it felt good, and he pressed back against them, growling soft encouragements. He felt it as soon as Percy positioned himself there, that thick, bulbous head pressing in. He was so fucking _thick_.

A low groan as Percy pushed, and Marcus tried to relax, opening wide for him, then a surprised grunt when Marcus’ arsehole gave way and let Percy in. Marcus was ready for him, used to being fucked, and he took him to the hilt, all that girth and length.

Percy went still behind him. Marcus moved, trying to encourage him to fuck him already.

“I want to feel you come in my arse,” Marcus growled. “You’re going to fucking fill me up. Not your hand, not pulling off in some fucking stall. You’re going to fill my fucking arse up.”

That thick cock pulled out, then slammed back in as Percy moaned. Marcus wrapped his hand around his own prick, pulling on it, anxious to get off just as fast as he thought Percy was going to. One long stroke, matching speed, then another and another.

Then Percy slipped from his arse and there was nothing.

Marcus twisted around to look over his shoulder to see Percy standing there, watching him. “What the fuck are you doing?” he snarled.

“Turn over.” Percy motioned to the desk. “You’re not a nameless, faceless arse any more than I’m a mouth without a body behind it.” The words were tight, uncomfortable. “I want to see your face while we fuck, you sodding arse.”

There was something vulnerable in the words, in the prickly way they were said. And Marcus turned over, hitching himself up to lay back on the desk, his arse right at the edge, knees bent and feet planted to hold himself wide. He watched as Percy carefully positioned himself again. He slipped in easily this time, eyes rolling back in his head as he slid in to the hilt.

“Fuck.” The word was strangled, sounding like a luxury rarely used. “You’re so fucking tight, Marc.”

It was the first time he’d heard his name said quite like that. “Fuck me, Percy,” he ordered quietly, his hand wrapped around his own prick and quietly wanking.

A hand replaced his, those pale, freckled long fingers wrapping surprisingly tightly, still slick with the remnants of the lube he had used.

Marcus could only watch as Percy fucked him, head thrown back, pale body taught with tension. Percy’s hand moved in a blur over Marcus’ prick, blending with the sensation of the pounding fuck Percy gave his body. He saw the moment that Percy lost control, that sudden look of shock, his mouth opening wide just before he tensed and spilled inside of Marcus.

It only took a few jerks of his hips, and Marcus came too, spilling all over Percy’s hand and his own chest.

He sat up, legs wrapped around Percy, pulling him closer. There was dampness on Weasley’s cheeks, and Marcus had no fucking clue what to do. He’d never had a bloke cry after a fuck.

“My brother Charlie was the first redhead in the glory hole,” Percy confided quietly. “I went there once, and I knew who it was and escaped before he touched me. But I asked him about it later. He did it because he loved cock and couldn’t get enough of it, not in Hogwarts, and he couldn’t exactly leave while he was still a student. I did it the first time because I couldn’t stop looking at Oliver Wood’s cock, and I wanted to know if it would taste as good as I thought.”

Marcus made a noise that might have been _go on_. He didn’t have words for this.

“I loved it.” Percy’s voice fell to a whisper. “I knew that’s what I wanted. I didn’t want soft tits or a soaked fanny. I wanted a thick, hard cock. I wanted to get blokes off. And I was fucking good at it. I had money, for the first fucking time in my life, I had enough money. So I kept doing it. Even when I knew I shouldn’t. And after the war, after everything was said and done and suddenly I was married and supposed to have children, I went back.” He paused, dragging in a ragged breath. “I went back because I still needed cock to be happy and fuck, there you were. The only fucking person who ever actually gave a shit.”

“I went looking for you,” Marcus admitted, uncomfortable with the confession.

Percy laughed. “We got lucky then, to find each other.” His eyes closed, and he kissed Marcus’ chest. The soft touch made Marcus shiver, and he let a hand slip down over Percy’s back, oddly soft and affectionate.

“You’re not going back,” Marcus said. “I’m the only bloke you suck, and the only bloke you fuck. You’re _mine_ , Percy Weasley.”

“I’m married,” Percy pointed out.

“I said bloke,” Marcus reminded him, because he knew that. “There’s not a fucking thing you can do about that. Have you got kids?” Marcus snorted when Percy nodded. “They need their father. Be a good one. Mine fucking sucked.” But this wasn’t the time for that. He had a feeling it would all come out eventually, another time. “I might have to get married eventually. Have little Flints. Doesn’t matter.”

He pulled Percy up, forced him to meet his gaze. “You’re mine. I’m going to expect you to fuck me any fucking time I want. And I won’t fuck anyone else. Got it?”

He felt Percy’s smile in his kiss. “Understood,” Percy murmured.

The glory hole in the Hog’s Head was closed for business, for now at least. There was always a bloke in the glory hole, after all, but it wasn’t going to be this particular redhead. Not any more. Marcus was keeping Percy’s glorious mouth, and his sodding brilliant prick, to himself.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Oh Glory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/896776) by [teas_me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teas_me/pseuds/teas_me)




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